A Promise Kept
by RavensWritings
Summary: A OneShot Christmas tale taking place in two times: the first Christmas after the striga attack and the first Christmas after Sam's left home. John's POV. Please R&R.


**Now**

It's almost Christmas. He has to do this and he has to do this now. He just couldn't believe he'd waited this long before starting out.

He pushes the Impala faster, heedless of the icy road conditions, irrational desperation pushing reason off to the side, as turn after turn threatens to spin him out of control. But he knows he won't spin out; instinct, experience, and sheer stubbornness will keep the car on the road as he tears further and faster into the night.

Why did he wait so long? He hadn't meant to wait so long. He'd made his son a promise after all, and no matter what had happened between them he was going to keep that promise.

So John Winchester keeps driving as the bitter memory begins to play in his mind's eye.

* * *

**Then**

"Heading out now?" The small voice from the doorway didn't sound surprised and John paused, shocked for a moment when he realized that the small voice was rarely surprised anymore.

_Am I really gone so often now that this seems normal? _

"Yeah, I have a few things to take care of, I'll..."

"…be back in three days, or I'll call Pastor Jim. I'll lock the door, ignore the phone unless it rings once first, I won't leave, _ever_, and I'll shoot first if anything tries to get in. I swear, Dad, I can do it."

"Dean…"

"And I'll take care of Sammy great. I won't forget, Dad. You can really count on me."

He wants to ask his son if he really is alright with this. If he really is alright with taking care of his brother while his father hunts.

_Dean, do you want me to stay home? _

The words are there, in his throat, ready to be spoken. But Dean's looking up at him, desperate to be trusted, desperate to prove he can do this. His son's bright eyes search John's face, looking for approval, needing it. John knows Dean still feels guilty about the shtriga and if he stays now Dean will feel like John doesn't trust him anymore. And Dean badly needs that confidence back.

So John says nothing. _It's better this way_, the thinks. _Dean will be stronger for it. It will be alright. _

At least that's what he tells himself as he exits the small apartment.

* * *

**Now**

By the time dawn creeps up over the horizon behind him, he's out of the mountains and away from the worst of the ice. Keeping an eye out for police, he pours on the speed.

He might just make it in time after all.

* * *

**Then**

As usual, the boys are asleep when he returns home. He moves silently through the small apartment, quickly stowing his gear, glad the hunt went well and he wouldn't have any bruises or limping to explain. He was even home a day earlier than he had anticipated. He feels pretty good about that.

_The boys made a bit of a mess in the living room,_ he notes as he looks at the small TV tray, bits of paper scattered all around it and Sammy's crayons scattered over the surface. John smiles to himself as he thinks, w_e'll have plenty of time to clean later; I shouldn't need to leave again for a little while_. So he ignores the socks under the window as he checks the locks, and he only idly wonders what possessed Sammy and Dean to throw their clothing around the apartment.

_Need to do laundry soon, too_, he muses.

He double checks the locks on the front door, glad that the cheap-ass landlord at least had the decency to spring for a decent deadbolt on the place, even if John had had to install it himself. All told, it wasn't a bad place for the price and the town was pretty close to the places he'd been hunting lately. Not for the first time he wonders if this could be a good place to settle down for awhile.

As he passes the small kitchenette on the way to the boys' bedroom, he smiles at the small plate of dinner and desert the boys left out for him.

He enters the tiny bedroom and ignores the additional socks strewn on the window ledge. He adjusts the covers over his sleeping children, gently pulling an errant strand of hair out of Sammy's eyes. _Gonna have to cut that soon_, he reminds himself, actually glad to have another mundane task to complete. _Maybe we really can stay here awhile, maybe start Dean back in school after the New Year, maybe get Sammy into kindergarten. _

But as he looks down at his sleeping sons, the old worries and fears return.

Fight or flight? Hunt or hide? Teach or play? _God, what am I doing to my sons?_

"Dad?" Dean's voice is muffled and sleepy. "You're home early."

"Go back to sleep, son. I'm home, everything's fine."

"Kay."

John's reverie shaken, he begins to exit the room when Dean's voice stops him cold. "Merry Christmas, Dad."

And like an avalanche, it all snaps into place- the plate, the socks all under the windows... _Because there isn't a chimney._

_Oh, God_. _I forgot today was Christmas._

* * *

**Now**

John plans to stop just long enough to fill the Impala's tank and his stomach. As he enters the gas station he tunes out the warbling country Christmas album playing at the register and he barely glances at the tinsel-festooned artificial mini-tree on the counter. If he hurries, he knows he can just make it in time. He can just get there by midnight, before Christmas is over. He needs to hurry.

But the memory kicks in again and he can't shake it. Almost without thinking, he wanders to the back, looking at the paltry assortment of random kitchen supplies arranged on the shelves. He sees what he's looking for at the bottom, and without hesitation, he grabs it and returns to the register.

_A promise is a promise_.

* * *

**Then**

John wanders back into the kitchen in a daze. This is a first, even for him. When he started hunting, he'd made a promise to his wife's memory that he'd try and keep things as normal for the boys as he could. Celebrating Christmas had been a big part of that promise. He'd always made a point of marking the holiday, even if it was by making sure they were close enough to Jim Murphy's place for a good meal and a rest. And there had always been something to give his sons, maybe not anything fancy, but something to surprise them with when they woke up Christmas morning.

He has nothing planned.

Nothing is open this time of night outside a few gas stations.

Nothing has been prepared.

Nothing.

And if the hunt hadn't of ended early, he wouldn't have been back for the holiday at all.

_Christ, what a mess. What am I going to do? _

Sinking into a seat at the table, he sees a card tucked underneath the dinner plate- _Santa's plate_, he corrects himself.

He reaches out for it as a bitter chuckle escapes his lips. In his mind, he can hear the inevitable argument that must have erupted between his sons, Sammy insisting they leave something out, Dean arguing that no one was coming. Sammy probably insisting against all reason that Santa would come, and even if he couldn't leave anything he'd still be hungry and eat the food- after all, Santa's Santa, and he always finds them.

Maybe Dean even teased his brother that Santa had better not come- after all, hadn't they been left with orders to shoot first if their Dad wasn't home? What if they shot Santa? John knew from experience that Sammy would eventually get upset, maybe even cry, and Dean probably spent the rest of the night catering to his little brother's whims to avoid a larger blow-up.

He looks at the sloppy, yet unmistakable form of a Christmas tree on the front of the homemade card, and he can see Sammy hunched over it, the crayons clutched in his little fingers. John's guilt nearly overwhelms him and with a shaking hand, he opens the card to read. The hand writing is Dean's, but the words are all Sammy's:

_Dear Santa,_

_My brother's writing this because I can't yet, and if he doesn't do it for me, I'll tell Dad and he knows it._

_I know we're hard to find, Dad says it's safer that way, but I hope it's wasn't too hard for you._

_I don't really want anything this year, but if you could help my Dad, I'd really like it._

_Maybe if you help him, he can be home in time for Christmas._

_Thanks,_

_Sammy Winchester_

_PS, It's ok if you don't want the food, Dean cooked it._

It's all John can do to keep the tears from waking up his sons.

* * *

**Now**

John parks the Impala a few blocks away from his son's dorm and sits in the car, unsure for the first time since setting out on this trip. He wonders if he shouldn't have brought Dean. Dean would be able to get in the door, would be able to say the things that John wants to and actually get Sammy to listen. Sammy always listened to his brother.

But he'd lied to Dean when he left; saying that Caleb had something big on his radar and he'd had to leave at once. He knows Dean had seen the lie in his eyes. He knows Dean has a pretty good idea where his father is going and why, but as always, he didn't question it. Dean never did.

He just asked John if he wanted him to keep looking for signs of the ghostly hitchhiker they'd been tracking while John was gone. He'd given his son a curt "yes," and they'd left it at that.

They'd been leaving a lot of things "at that" since Sammy left.

And now it's Christmas. And, maybe, it's John's last chance to make it right. He has to try at least; he has a promise to keep.

He gets out of the car, thrusting a hand in his pocket, feeling for the small hand-made object inside, and begins to walk.

* * *

**Then**

It took him the rest of the night, but as the sun streams through the small window and he surveys the results he hopes it will be enough.

He's so focused on his handiwork he almost misses the sound pounding feet before an enthusiastic little boy wraps himself around John's legs.

"Daddy! You're home early! You made it! You made it in time!"

John smiles at his son as he swings down and picks him up, "In time for what, Sammy?"

"In time for…"

Sammy's voice trails off and he watches his son's eyes go wider and wider as he takes in the scene in the kitchen. The counter had been transformed during the night into a winter wonderland of white. Gone were the stacks of dishes and in their place were rolling hills with little trees and bushes scattered around. There was even a small pond, ringed by shrubbery, in which "floated" a perfect, white, "swan."

"Wow…"

John turns to look at an awestruck Dean, now standing next to them.

Sammy twists in his father's arms to challenge his brother, "See! I told you! Santa brought Dad back AND he made it look like Christmas." After briefly sticking out his tongue at his brother, Sammy turns back to the vista, "He even remembered to bring us a tree. It even has an angel!"

John looks down at his oldest as Dean slowly walks to the kitchen table for a closer look. Standing on its top is a modest tree rising from a snowy white mound. It's only about two feet tall, but it's dusted in snow and decorated in silver and candy-canes. On the top is a small silver angel, complete with wings and a halo.

Sammy is enchanted, his wide eyes still trying to take in everything at once. John gives him a quick kiss on the cheek and a hug, "Tell ya what, Sammy. It snowed last night and if you get dressed and are really nice to your brother, we'll go out and have some fun before we go get breakfast."

Sammy's eyes shine as he considers the endless possibilities of fresh snow on a bright morning, "Can we build a snowman?"

"Anything you like."

"Snow fort?"

"Bigger than the Alamo, if you want."

John chuckles at his son's enthusiastic exclamation. As soon as his father sets him down, he runs back to the bedroom, laughing.

Turning back to Dean, he's slightly taken aback at what he sees.

Instead of the kitchen, Dean is looking at the front door, by which leans the hatchet John used to take the top off one of the evergreens outside. Slowly, John watches as Dean turns his head to take in the kitchen again, not seeing the wonderland anymore, but the pieces and parts his father used to make it.

The white sheet from his father's bed, arranged over towels and dishes to make the hilly landscape on the counter. Shredded cotton balls from the first-aid kit used to complete the illusion of fluffy, white snow. More trimmed greenery from outside arranged to make the mini-trees and bushes in the landscape. The pond, made from bright tinfoil with an origami swan on top.

The tree, stuck into an old box filled with sand for stability and skirted with white pillowcases for illusion, is dusted with snowy talc powder. And more foil was used to make the angel and the tiny stars and balls that are nestled in the branches. A quick glace over at the trash can confirms the suspicion that the candy canes were unwrapped sometime during the night.

When Dean finally turns back to his Father, John's surprised to see a grin spreading across his face. "I can't believe you did all this last night. It's so cool. Sammy doesn't have a clue." He dashes over to his father and John pulls his son in close for a rare bear hug.

But a dagger pierces John's heart as he hears Dean whisper into chest, "You planned it this way, didn't you? You let us think you were going to be gone. You didn't forget- you just wanted us to believe you did. But you didn't, did you?" Dean looks up for reassurance and John smiles through the sudden tears that threaten.

"No, Dean, I didn't forget." He lies.

Dean buys it. "Sneaky."

John smiles through his guilt and gives Dean a quick shove toward the bedroom. "Go get yourself dressed, and help your brother. We want to get out there before the sun has a chance to melt the snow."

"Cool." Dean rushes back to the bedroom and John can't help but laugh when he hears his son exclaim, "No! Sammy, that's all on backwards!"

* * *

**Now**

Sneaking into the dorm late at night on Christmas is easier than John had anticipated. As he walks thru the emptied halls he winces at the idea of his son spending the holiday alone. He'd always tried so hard to keep them together; he still couldn't quite wrap his head around how badly he'd failed this time.

The room is easy to find, but it's the note on the door that stops him. A simple message board is tacked to the front, upon which is written, "Merry X-mas! Out today- Back tomorrow. Leave a message."

The handwriting is unmistakable.

_I missed him. Son of a bitch!_

Hanging his head in defeat, John stoops down to push the small tinfoil angel, complete with wings and a halo, under his son's door. It was all he could think to do to let his son know he kept his promise.

* * *

**Then**

I turned out to be a good Christmas after all.

John had finally herded his boys out into the snow where the usual snow shenanigans were to be found. He even let them team us and beat him in a rousing snowball fight. That afternoon one of the local churches had sponsored a small door-to-door caroling party and while Dean denied it to the high heavens, John knew even he'd enjoyed tagging along. Especially after one of the homes they visited offered the boys huge, steaming mugs of hot chocolate. Even the small diner by the interstate was serving a good holiday themed meal to the few truckers unfortunate enough to be on the road at this time.

By the time John brought them home, Sammy and Dean were exhausted. John ushered Dean off to bed, but Sammy stubbornly insisted on sitting up with his father for a little while. The local newspaper had printed _The Night Before Christmas_ in its holiday edition, so after tucking Dean in, John pulled his youngest son onto his lap and began to read.

He was stopped before St. Nicholas dropped down the chimney by Sammy's small hand blocking the paper. His son turned to him and with a small voice he whispered, "I thought you forgot us, Dad."

John remained silent, not wanting to lie, too fearful to tell the truth.

"But I'm glad you came home." There was a slight pause. "You'll always be home for Christmas won't you, Dad?"

John looks his son in the eye and says steadily, "I will always be there for you on Christmas, Sammy. I _promise_ I will be wherever you are."

Satisfied, Sammy rested his head back on his father's shoulder. He was asleep before St. Nick had finished filling the stockings.

* * *

**Now**

The ride back was uneventful, leaving John far too much time with his own dark thoughts.

He says nothing when he returns to the hotel room. Dean's stretched out on the bed with what looks like some police files in his lap, flipping through the pages. He can feel Dean's eyes on him, the files temporarily forgotten for a moment, as he takes his father's emotional temperature. John figures his son doesn't like what he sees, as he goes back to flipping through the files without a word.

John sits at the small table, and proceeds to pull one of the handguns out of his bag, breaking it down for a thorough cleaning. He knows his oldest son too well, and he knows Dean's dying to ask him what happened. He also knows that Dean will never just come out and ask him so he waits.

He doesn't have to wait long. Almost before the gun is completely apart, Dean clears his throat to speak.

"Caleb OK?" _You gonna tell the truth, or are we gonna play the game?_

John chooses the game; he doesn't think he can handle the truth tonight.

"Caleb's fine."

"Get what you were after?" _Did you talk to Sam?_

"No."

"Did it get the drop on you and get away?" _Did he kick you out?_

"No."

"Do you at least know what it was?" _Did you at least see him?_

"No."

"Gonna try for it again later?" _Or are you going to hold this grudge forever?_

The question stops John cold. _Will I? Should I?_ The memory of his sleeping son curled up against his chest on a cold winter's night is juxtaposed with the memory of a door slamming in his face as Sammy storms out, walking over to the Impala where his brother waits to drive him to the bus station. John looks up at Dean and sees the same look now as he did then, _Are you really going to let him go like this, Dad?_

"Dad? Are you gonna try again?" _Please? For me?_

Looking back down, John resumes cleaning. He has no answer and Dean doesn't ask again. He just goes back to the police reports.

After a few minutes the silence gets the better of him and John looks over at his son, "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"He wasn't there, looked like he went to a friend's."

"Guess that's good then, did you leave something, a message maybe?" _Or are you letting him think you forgot?_

"Sort of."

"What…"

"Dean." John cuts him off, his tone gruffer than he'd intended. "I kept my promise, leave it at that."

"Yes, sir."

John goes back to cleaning his gun and allows the familiarity of the actions to lull him, only paying half attention to Dean when he stands up and pulls on his coat, "I'm gonna go down the road and grab some grub, need anything?"

John doesn't look up as he shakes his head and he's startled when Dean comes up behind him and sets something by his arm.

"Merry Christmas anyway, Dad." Dean opens the door and exits before John has a chance to see what it was he had set down.

It was a tinfoil angel, complete with wings and a halo.

_There's always next year_, he thinks as he smiles at the shiny figure. _A promise is a promise, after all._

* * *

_Happy Holidays! _


End file.
